Virgin Post

Sunday morning and the sun is shining (odd how the forecast on Friday said entirely the opposite but that is British weather for you). Stephen is enjoying oatcakes with lemon curd while checking the Rich List - nobody we know - while Bella and Harry wait expectantly for a bit of crust from my toast.

But to important matters: the move, which I have to say it is all over bar the shouting. Actually, when I say shouting what I mean is the exchange of contracts, fixing a completion date, doing a car boot sale, selling the cars, changing all the addresses, watching the items on eBay, sorting the dog insurance, packing up and leaving. Not much to do then; just as well I have Stephen to sort it all out for me.

So what has been accomplished? The date is fixed for the removal company and we have booked out places on the Eurotunnel. Our wonderful proverbial knight in shining armour, Chris, is geared up to share the driving with Stephen (fortunately he regards it all as a

great adventure: what is it about men and maps?) Dog passports have been sorted and my new passport came in double quick time, which is just as well as I completed the form incorrectly twice. It goes to show how invaluable the Post Office checking service is for those, like me, who can't be bothered reading the instructions properly as you have done it before, ten years ago.

We have shifted a lot of CDs (after uploading them to iTunes) and some books as well as clearing out unwanted clothing. Stephen has managed to get his shoe collection down to only forty pairs (not counting the ones in Italy), which makes my paltry twenty-six pairs look like I am not really trying. I guess, though, that the most freeing aspect to selling the house is that, while I keep on top of the housework with dusting and hovering, I now think that there is no point going overboard as everything will have to be polished and sorted when it comes out of storage...

And that is a whole new kettle of pesce, as they say.